City On Fire
by Myradream
Summary: The story of The Beggar Woman, after she has drank the lye, and it has left her addled. She still has glimmers of her former life, but most of them are painful. Lots of triggers. Should have appearances by all of your favorites eventually. Rated M for a reason. Prostitution, Rape, Noncon, Abuse, Self Harm, Suicide, etc. Not a happy tale.


The Beggar Woman splashed through the muck trying to retrieve the coins that her most recent customer had thrown into the puddle at the front of the alley that had served as the backdrop for her work. Finding one of the blessed shilling coins and rubbing the muck from it with her fingers, and then absently rubbing her hand on the oft-soiled cotton of what had once been a red dress.

She placed the coin in the little leather bag she'd found thrown out, while sifting through cast-offs. Only once had she stolen, since her life had changed. She didn't remember much, but occasionally she had episodes. She liked to think of that all having to do with before, and it deeply unsettled her when glimmers from that life penetrated this one.

She had shut out whatever had happened to her, and the poison she had swallowed had left her addled in the brain, and perhaps she had been addled before the poison. The possibility was there that what had happened to her at that party, and the resulting madness had done more damage then any lye could have wreaked.

She had been sent to a madhouse for a little while. The Judge in charge of her case, of thievery was a man that had caused such a visceral response from her when she saw him after being dragged into the courtroom that she had begun to scream, and scream. His irritation at her antics, had caused her to be dragged from the court before he had even got a good look at her. Not that the years, and poverty, and madness had treated her well. He probably wouldn't have recognized her anyhow.

The smallest mercy, was that she didn't remember how she knew him. She was struck only with the feeling that he was dangerous, and to be avoided, after the result his appearance had caused her. She'd spent three months in Fogg's asylum, and when she had been released, due to lack of funds to pay for her treatment, she had been shorn of her hair, and thrown out onto the streets that had remained her home ever since.

Judge Turpin. The name still sent a shudder down her spine, and upsetting images of a masquerade floating in her mind, but just out of reach of any sense of clarity. Flames always ended her visions, and the sense of burning hurt her nerves. She shook her head back and forth violently, to try and dislodge the images and the fiery pain that accompanied them. When that didn't work, she reached her filthy hand up into the dirty locks of her once golden hair. Ripping at the strands, until the pain distracted her from the woman in her minds eye that looked like her, and the grotesque, demon like masks. Nightmares of the images haunted her, but she had found that she could distract herself from them when they came by tugging out strands of hair, or bashing her fists into the brick of the buildings she slept against. And one particularly bad incident, nothing had worked, and she'd turned to bashing her head against the bricks.

That time, she had awoken in the Hospital. Nuns had treated her wounds, and used words like "concussion". And they'd fed her and taken care of her as she healed, but before long, she was again on the streets.

She had found the Judge's House by accident one day, while roaming her usual stomping grounds for customers, when a sound from an open window of a stately home down the street. She'd followed it, to hear the sound, and would watch from the street as the blonde girl sang by her window. It was a beautiful sound, and she found herself heading that way now.

The darkness of the night was of little consequence to the prostitute. She had little concept of day or night, and worked to earn money to feed herself, and keep herself alive through this meager, and sad existence. She found her happinesses where she could. After stumbling her way through the streets she found herself in front of the Turpin house and she frowned when she saw that the window was shuttered, and the curtain drawn. There would be no singing tonight.

Johanna, the neighbor girl had said her name was. She was a pretty thing. With a lovely voice, and the sound was a therapeutic balm to The Beggar Woman's heart. The sound kept her coming back, despite the danger. The Judge had seen her once and yelled at her to get away, and she had ran and the fit that followed was the one that had led to the concussion.

Without the sound of the singing girl to pass the evening, she found herself wandering down toward the docks. She had a few regulars there. They'd taught her how to be crass, and improved her language, teaching her how to talk like a whore. And she liked to look at the boats. She ignored the feeling of her stomach rumbling.

A blonde soldier boy, in his late teens at best was the first one she saw, and attempted to corner, approaching him "'Ey boy! What you say to a little jig-jig? " Grinning at him, the gaps where violent johns of past had punched away a few of her teeth, showing black gaping holes, the result more macabre, then the alluring, she was attempting.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a half penny, muttering "Gotta go, Mum. " And he hurried away to his ship, and she looked at the coin, her smile widening. Money from begging was more satisfying then that from working. She didn't have to deal with the pain of the men inside of her, as they pumped away at her diseased treasure chest. The burning was always worse, when she'd had to work most of the night, and she had enough money now to get something to eat.

She found herself before "Mrs' Lovett's Pie Shop" Frowning again when she tried the door and found it locked. The food wasn't any better here then at Mrs. Moony's. The gut rot that she received after, always made for an extra painful evening of whoring, but she always came to it. Always looking up at the second floor. The draw from that other life, and the shadows that it held strong.

After about an hour of staring, the strange, hypnotic feeling of warmth and safety that she found when she came here, a trance like state finding her, but quickly broken by the feeling of a broomstick hitting her in the back of the head. She stumbled foreword, her hands rising to defend herself, as the screams of the homely, wild haired woman who made the meat pies shattered the relative peace of the night.

"Get, you hag! You smell, and you're bad for business!" Punctuating her words with another sequence of attacks from her broom,

The beggar woman ran, stumbling away. The interruption of her peaceful moment, more painful then that of anything the pie maker could have delivered. She hurried into a tavern by the name of the Hog's Head, and settled herself in the darkest corner. She'd bought a bowl of the stew, and had enough coinage left for a tankard of ale, and she nursed that now, hunched over the table, and gazing down into the surface of the oily base of the beef and vegetables, enjoying the comforting smell.

Trying to keep the fire, and the flames always at the edges of her mind, and the masks, and the laughter away. Chanting to herself, watching the surface of her stew react to her whispered, mad words.

"City on fire. City on fire. City on fire. City on fire."

She carried on that way for hours, until the kindly bar maid came over to rescue her from the episode. Reminding her that food was to be eaten, and patting her back kindly, the woman who had once been called Lucy ate her stew, and fell asleep at the table, passing a fitful night of terrors, and flashbacks, fighting unseen assailants in her sleep. The owner had a strict rule of not allowing anyone to drunkenly spend the night, but he was away on business in Paris, and his niece, in charge of the Tavern in his absence couldn't bring herself to throw her out, especially when the rain began, an hour into The Beggar Woman's fitful slumber. Leaving her with a blanket, after locking up for the night and retiring to her own quarters.

The blanket, and the beggar woman were gone earl the next morning, and the girl was grateful no one had taken advantage of the door left unlocked by the old whore, her mind unable to recognize the possible dangers leaving a business unlocked could bring. She wouldn't make the mistake again, and one more door of charity closed, and nowhere in sight, did a window open.


End file.
